The moment Noah was escorted out of the training hall to "rest," chaos quietly erupted behind the scenes.
The students of S-Class Zero watched the closing door in stunned silence. The instructor, Captain Rourke, stood frozen with the tablet in his hand—knuckles turning white from how hard he was gripping it.
It was the silver-haired girl, Kaede Ishikawa, who broke the silence first.
"That boy…" she said slowly, rubbing her bruised jaw. "He didn't move like someone trying to dodge. He moved like someone who's survived real fear."
A few students nodded.
Another added, "His instinctive reactions… his timing… it felt too natural. Almost trained."
"No," Kaede corrected.
"Not trained. Conditioned."
Rourke exhaled sharply.
"This doesn't make sense. A phantom candidate… but HQ didn't send any."
He tapped his earpiece.
"Control, pull up the profile of Noah Sato. Full history. Full clearance."
A pause.
"…Sir," the operator replied, confused, "there's nothing in our system."
Rourke's brows furrowed deeper.
"Then check the national database. Civilian records, military logs, medical reports, school archives, local police files. Everything."
"Yes, sir."
The students exchanged looks.
This wasn't normal.
Even prodigies had some kind of traceable background.
Noah seemed to be carved out of thin air.
Meanwhile — 5 Floors Below, Surveillance Room
High-ranking officials watched multiple monitors displaying Noah in his temporary holding room. He sat awkwardly on a metal bench, hugging his backpack like a security blanket.
He looked harmless.
Too harmless.
Dr. Helena Ward, the facility's chief psychological analyst, adjusted her glasses.
"That reaction… it doesn't match his physical output," she muttered. "His fear response is real. He believes he's in danger. And yet his body moved like someone with years of survival intuition."
General Hargrove, a rigid man with steel-gray hair, scoffed.
"Maybe he's suppressing his true nature."
"Or he doesn't know it," Helena countered.
The operator finally spoke from behind a row of screens.
"Sir, we found files. But…"
Everyone turned.
"But what?" Hargrove demanded.
The operator swallowed.
"…The file looks tampered with. Or cursed."
"Show us."
The main monitor blinked.
And Noah Sato's civilian record appeared.
Or rather… the anomaly that was supposed to be his life.
1. ACADEMIC REPORTSNever scored above 50% in any exam.
Never scored below 45%.
Straight line mediocrity. Perfectly average. Unnaturally average.
Helena frowned.
"That's statistically improbable. A normal student should fluctuate. Even stable performers vary by at least 10–20 points over time."
Hargrove leaned forward.
"Almost like… someone was deliberately keeping him average."
2. GYM & HEALTH RECORDINGS
Video clips played.
In them, the school gym teacher rotated Noah's arm. The instructor paused the footage and zoomed into Noah's back.
A web of faint, old scars covered the skin. Thin lines, circular burns, cuts—too organized to be accidental.
Then the focus shifted to Noah's knuckles. Calloused. Hardened. The kind seen on street fighters or military trainees.
"What child has scars like that?" Helena whispered.
A technician added quietly,
"Gym teacher reported he 'fell a lot.'"
The entire room stared at the recording.
No one was stupid enough to believe that.
3. MEDICAL REPORT — AGE 12Severe right leg injury.
Doctor's conclusion: "Full recovery impossible. Minimal mobility expected."
Hargrove checked a window feed showing Noah swinging his legs absentmindedly.
"…His leg seems perfectly fine."
"One possibility," Helena said slowly, "is misdiagnosis."
"No doctor misdiagnoses a completely destroyed leg," Hargrove replied.
"Unless somebody wanted the record to say that," she countered.
4. INCIDENT REPORT — AGE 5
This was where the temperature in the room seemed to drop.
A police document filled the screen.
"Child went missing in the Amazon rainforest after a boat accident during a tourist trip."
"Presumed dead."
"Found alive after 31 days."
"Dehydrated, malnourished… but alive."
No explanation found regarding how a five-year-old survived alone in deep jungle territory.
Helena whispered, "A five-year-old surviving the Amazon for a month… even adults trained for it fail."
Another file flashed up.
The medical notes following rescue:
No injuries beyond mild malnutrition.
No infections.
No trauma response. Calm. Disturbingly calm.
The psychologist's face darkened.
"That kind of psychological stability in a child isn't natural. It's either extreme dissociation…"
She paused.
"Or conditioning."
Something silent and cold passed through the room.
General Hargrove finally spoke.
"This boy… isn't normal."
"But is he dangerous?" an official asked, voice trembling.
Helena studied Noah's live camera feed. He was currently poking a vending machine, trying to figure out how to make it work.
"…Not intentionally," she said.
"But something inside him is buried. Deep."
Back in the Training Hall — Student Reactions
Kaede crossed her arms, frustration obvious.
"There's something off. He moves like an animal cornered its whole life."
One of the elite boys, Jace Carter, smirked.
"Or he's playing dumb. Classic strategy: hide your claws."
Another girl whispered, "But that knockout… he didn't even aim."
Kaede shook her head.
"That's what worries me. Someone who moves without thinking is more dangerous than someone who thinks before moving."
Rourke was silent, staring at the blank file on his tablet.
"Maintain distance from him," he instructed.
"Observe. Do not provoke."
But neither he nor the students could shake off the same unsettling feeling:
Noah Sato wasn't strong.
He was surviving.
Like someone who had always been hunted by something no one else could see.
Meanwhile — Noah's Room
Noah sat alone, staring at the one-way mirror.
He didn't know people were watching him from the other side.
He didn't know his past was being dissected by military officials.
He didn't know they believed he was a living weapon.
He just knew one thing:
"I wanna go home…"
His voice cracked pathetically.
He hugged his backpack tighter, unaware of the psychological war erupting because of him.
Unaware of the shadowy figure reading his file from a distant, dark room somewhere else entirely.
A figure that whispered to himself:
"So… they finally found you."